


Filthy

by Lil_Munchkin



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Debauchery, Degradation, Dom/sub, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Miya Atsumu is a Little Shit, Polyamory, Power Play, Threesome - M/M/M, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 04:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Munchkin/pseuds/Lil_Munchkin
Summary: There's a fine line between beauty and filth, and Kiyoomi's boyfriends balance along it like acrobats on a tightrope.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Hinata Shouyou/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 141





	Filthy

**Author's Note:**

> oops I accidentally wrote a light bdsm poly fic. I hate it when that happens :/

Kiyoomi knows from the moment he walks into the office kitchen that he’s going to be home late tonight.

Days for Kiyoomi are executed with surgical precision, every hour carefully curated to meet his meticulous standards. Nothing is more satisfying than a schedule that runs smoothly. The clock ticked over to 6pm and he had full plans to finish off the rest of his paperwork and leave on time. An hour is set aside to accommodate for peak hour traffic, with a twenty-minute leeway in case there’s an accident. It’s Friday, so Atsumu should have takeout waiting for him in the kitchen by the time he walks through the door.

All of this careful mental planning has been thoroughly shot thanks to his co-workers. At this rate he wouldn’t be surprised to discover they’re all actually pigs in human disguises. Their shared space has been left in complete disarray. It’s a health crisis waiting to fester, an incubator for the next bubonic plague. He has half a mind to set the whole place on fire for the greater good of humanity.

Kiyoomi doesn’t even come down here often. He doesn’t have to. He’s a senior executive on a different floor.

But after a one-on-one meeting with a representative of the National Baseball Association, a mug was left surreptitiously on his desk to mock him. Usually the removal of the offending object would be dealt with by his PA, but she left early for a dentist appointment and had no intentions of coming back.

Kiyoomi was left with two options: a) go down a level to the staff kitchen and clean the mug himself, or b) leave the used mug on his desk to attract bacteria over the weekend and—no, no, absolutely _not_. He refuses to even _fathom_ such a thought.

So here he is, entering unfamiliar territory, only to be confronted with a coffee mug stain wetting the surface of a table. What kind of _psychopath_ doesn’t use a coaster? Especially in a shared space? Oh god he’s getting flashbacks to when he first started living with Atsumu.

The bin is overflowing with mouldy fruit skins and paper towels, there are enough crumbs on the floor to attract half the rat population of Tokyo, and there are _cobwebs_ nesting in the ceiling corners. His OCD takes lift-off and breaches into outer space.

Very calmly, Kiyoomi places the mug in the sink and returns to his office to change into the spare casual clothes he keeps in a bag under his desk. With a surgical mask hugging his chin and a bucket of cleaning products in his other hand, Kiyoomi calls Atsumu as he heads towards the elevator. Cheerful music plays from the speakers as he descends, the dial tone chirping in his ear.

 _“Omi-kun?”_ Atsumu picks up after eight rings because he’s a bastard, but since the nature of the call is irregular, he lets it slide this time.

The blonde sounds surprised. Kiyoomi doesn’t normally call Atsumu until 6.45pm, when he’s nearing home and thought about what he wants for dinner.

“I’m going to be home late tonight,” Kiyoomi states plainly. “I’m afraid there’s been an emergency that I have to take care of.”

Atsumu snorts. _“If ya didn’ want to watch ‘Rev-Rev-Revolution’ with us, then ya coulda jus’ said so. No need to make excuses.”_

“Trust me. Nothing would make me happier than to watch the stupid car movie and eat heart-attack-inducing trash with you guys, but it’s important that I get this shit done before I leave the office.” The elevator dings and he steps out onto the lower floor. Most of the desks are empty now. Everyone has either left for drinks or rushing home to their families.

_“Sure, sure. What do you want me to do with Shou? He’s been high-strung all afternoon waitin’ fer you to get home.”_

Kiyoomi’s eyes darken. “I’ll be an hour late at the most—” he winces when he walks into the kitchen “—maybe two. I’ll call when I leave the office. I want him ready when I walk through the door.”

 _“In the bedroom?”_ Atsumu drawls disinterestedly, like they’re discussing the weather.

“Office.” His mouth goes dry as he sets the bucket down on the table. “Over my desk.”

Atsumu chuckles, voice rich like red velvet. _“Tha’s a bit cruel now, isn’ it? Did Mako-chan file something out of alphabetical order? Or no wait let me guess—Mr Akiyoshi had spinach stuck in his teeth again, didn’t he?”_

“Neither,” Kiyoomi growls, but even the very mention of those things makes him physically ill. “Wait for my call. Save the leftovers in the fridge.”

_“Aye, aye, Omi-kun.”_

Kiyoomi pretends Atsumu’s voice doesn’t affect him as much as it does and hangs up. He gets to work. He starts by clearing the benches and putting any mugs, plates or glasses in the dishwasher where they belong. Why anyone would just leave dirty dishes lying around is beyond his comprehension, but he’ll be sure to bring it up at the next meeting.

Kuroo Tetsurou enters the kitchen as Kiyoomi scrubs the sink. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone and the knot of his tie hangs loose at his sternum. Kuroo blinks a couple of times, then looks down at the coffee mug in his hand as if realising he’s had _way_ too much caffeine today. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Fixing this pigsty before it becomes a public health hazard,” Kiyoomi states the obvious, not looking from the sink.

“You know we have cleaners who come on the weekend, right?”

“Cleaners who _clearly_ aren’t doing their jobs. You see that?” He jabs a rubber finger at the cobwebs. “Disgraceful!”

“Hey man, the cleaners are doing the best they can. Mai is an angel.”

Kiyoomi lifts his head to pin Kuroo with a plain look. “This kitchen looks like it hasn’t had a proper clean since it was renovated ten years ago. If Mai’s an angel, maybe she should return to heaven because she clearly isn’t doing these counters any favours.”

Kuroo polishes off the rest of his coffee and opens the dishwasher— _while it’s on_ —to add his mug to the rack. Plumes of steam slap a sheet of condensation to the bottoms of the overhead cabinets and Kiyoomi reminds himself that it’s against the terms in his Office Safety contract to assault his co-worker with a metal scourer.

“Ah well, do what makes you happy. Hey,” Kuroo slaps Kiyoomi’s shoulder, “you’re definitely coming to the _Volley4Kids_ fundraiser at the end of the month, right?”

“Ushijima wouldn’t let me out of it.”

“Ah, come on, Sakusa! Fundraisers are fun. You get to dress up, get to bring along a date, _and_ you can get drunk off the alcohol the rich bastards are paying for.” Kiyoomi doesn’t appreciate the playful nudge to his ribs, or how the rooster-haired spokesperson inches into his personal bubble like he’s begging for a death sentence. “There’s a juicy rumour going ‘round that you elected to bring _two_ dates to the fundraiser. Is that true?”

“Whether it’s true or not, it’s no concern of _yours_.”

“Ah, so I’ll take that as a _yes_ then.”

Kiyoomi flushes the suds down with a healthy dose of Drano before deliberating how to get the finger marks of the stainless-steel fridge.

“So,” Kuroo leans against the counter wiggling his eyebrows, “who’re you bringing along? Everyone’s _dying_ to know. Oikawa considered hiring a hacker to bypass the lock on your phone, but I advise him against it.”

“How _nice_ of you.” Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow, then he mutters: “Fuck. I left my microfibre cloth at home.”

Kuroo blinks. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” The Fingerprint Situation will have to wait until Monday. He whips out the spray bottle and sponge and marches over to the table to deal with the coffee stains.

“Sakusa?”

“Mm?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Question?”

Kuroo sighs and shakes his head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible to talk to when you get like this? Honestly, it’s a wonder anyone puts up with you. I’m starting to think your plus two are just your mum and your sister.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kiyoomi scoffs, the corner of his eyebrow twitching when a particularly old stain stubbornly resists the chemicals. “I’m bringing my boyfriends.”

“Boy _friends_ —as in _plural?_ ” Kuroo chokes.

“Satisfied? I’m sure that’ll be enough gossip to hold you over for the weekend. Now will you please leave me to my business? Once I’m done cleaning this—” he scowls at the stain he rubs raw with the sponge “—table, I’ll be getting the vacuum cleaner.”

“Are you kidding? I have _several_ _questions_.”

“Questions you’re free to ask _later_. Right now I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“Yes, but this is important.”

Kuroo taps his finger against the edge of the counter. “How about this: I’ll leave you to do your thing so long as you promise to answer all the questions I have on Monday.”

“Within in reason. I won’t give you their names or show you photos of them.”

“But those are the two things I was gonna ask for!”

“Those are my terms.”

Realising that’s as much as Kiyoomi’s going to give him, Kuroo accepts these terms and wishes him a good weekend. Only when the spokesman is gone can Kiyoomi fully relax, easing into his element and allowing the world to dilute and vanish like dye in water. By the time Sakusa Kiyoomi is through with the staff kitchen, it looks as if it’s never come into contact with a single, grotty human being since its construction.

Except for the Fingerprint Situation on the fridge. He makes a mental note to leave work a little earlier on Monday morning to fix that.

He changes back into his work suit, placing his casual clothes in a plastic bag to be put in the hamper as soon as he gets home. The time on the dashboard tells him it’s 7.30pm. He sighs and sinks back into the leather of his Jaguar, craning his neck until he hears a satisfying _pop_.

The engine purrs to life with the press of a button, and he calls Atsumu as he’s pulling out of the underground carpark.

“How was the movie?”

_“Didn’t end up watching it. We decided to play video games instead.”_

“What’d you end up getting for take-out?”

_“Thai. I saved you some of the satay chicken before Shou had it all.”_

“Great. Make sure to have him ready.”

Atsumu’s voice dips to a caramel purr when he says, _“I’ve already started prepping.”_

A gasp in the background of the call echoes in Kiyoomi’s car and he grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Atsumu had spoken so casually that Kiyoomi assumed he was still on the couch playing video games. He should’ve known better.

The congestion has petered off in the time it took for Kiyoomi to scrub the kitchen to semi-perfection. A drive that usually takes him an hour is cut down to less than half that. That doesn’t stop Kiyoomi from flirting with the speed limit, the speed dial toeing on the border of illegality but never quite going over.

The city is swathed in orange sunset, Friday’s nightlife only just gaining some momentum. It’s the kind of passing interest Kiyoomi might gaze at while sitting at a red light, but tonight he’s particularly distracted. On a normal day a good deep clean is enough to help Kiyoomi unwind, but the problem with cleaning the staff kitchen was that it wasn’t in his schedule. He should be at home by now with a stomach full of Thai food and Shouyou sobbing over his—

He’s getting ahead of himself.

Rolling down the windows to let in the warm spring air, Kiyoomi tries to think of anything else other than what’s waiting at home for him.

Mildew in a shower. Hair clumps in a drain. Dust between the keys of a keyboard. White vinegar. Disinfectant. Antibacterial hand sanitizer. Atsumu … Shouyou … Atsumu and Shouyou fu—

This isn’t working.

Heat pools in his stomach and that familiar twitch rouses in his pants as he tears around the corner onto his street. His neighbour, Mrs Mikimoto, is standing in her nightgown tending to her roses and gives his car the stink-eye as he slows to a stop outside his driveway.

The iron gates open at the press of a button and the driveway dips into an underground carpark. There are three cars: two of which are loud, obnoxious fuel-guzzling monstrosities belonging to Atsumu; the other a modest little red Volkswagen that has Shouyou written all over it, from the fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror to the volleyball stickers slapped onto its bumper.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he enters the main hallway to find it suspiciously quiet. All the lights are on, and there’s a vague scent of Thai food lingering in the air, but other than that his rambunctious boyfriends are nowhere to be seen.

His stomach growls, but there’s a different breed of hunger that’s far stronger building up inside of him. He takes the stairs up the second floor, and breezes through the double doors leading to the bedroom. The bedspread is impeccably made, not a single crease on its Persian silk surface. He yanks his key pass off his neck and dumps it on the bed along with his briefcase, tie and blazer. He usually wouldn’t disrespect Shouyou’s hard work so carelessly, but at this point he’s too impatient to care.

Midnight, their black Maine Coon, is coiled on the armchair in the corner, yellow eyes following him with cursory interest as he dumps his dirty clothes in the hamper. On the shelves beside her are a collection of Shouyou’s favourite manga categorized by genre and then by alphabetical order. Above the books is a framed photograph of Atsumu and his twin brother, and a plushie the blonde brought back for Kiyoomi when he and Shouyou went to Disneyland (Kiyoomi made up an excuse that he couldn’t go because of work, but they all knew it was because he despises amusement parks with a burning passion).

The clapping of his dress shoes echoes against the hardwood floors as he strides towards his private office, rolling up the sleeves of his collared shirt to his elbow.

He pauses, hand on the silver handle, and leans in to listen.

The walls are semi-soundproof throughout the whole house (even outside bedroom shenanigans Atsumu’s and Shouyou’s ‘inside voices’ are just a few decibels shy of yelling), if there’s whispering it can’t be heard. What he _does_ he though, is the aggressive hum of something small and mechanical.

He yanks the door so quickly he’s surprised it still stays on its hinges.

The office is dark save for the green lamp on his mahogany desk. Opposite the desk, lounging on a black leather sofa is Atsumu, his arms strewn across the back and his legs crossed one over the other. He looks as though he’s been sitting there a while, but Kiyoomi knows he probably only just sat down as he was breezing towards the door.

At a glance it’s clear Atsumu has relaxed into his ‘after hours’ gear. A t-shirt hangs loosely off his chiselled body, and a pair of grey sweatpants do little to hide the obvious excitement tenting around his crotch area. The only thing less than casual about his look is the silk black choker hugging his neck.

The blonde grins wolfishly at him. “Took ya long enough.”

“You haven’t taken care of yourself,” Kiyoomi notes stoically.

The corner of Atsumu’s lip curls. “Ya didn’t give me permission to.”

Something shifts out the corner of his eye, stealing his attention. He takes a few steps towards his desk, shutting the door behind him. Wide, eager eyes meet his and all the air in his lungs escapes in one sharp exhale, like he’s just taken an uppercut straight to the stomach.

Shouyou’s a messy thing. He’s naked and bent over the desk, his toes just barely brushing the floor. Both his wrists are bound at his tailbone in Atsumu’s favourite knot. Sweat dampens the mahogany in a glistening sheen beneath his torso, and a pool of saliva dribbles from the corner of a mouth stuffed mouth. Tears cling to his eyelashes as they beat against his apple-round cheeks.

Evidence of their past sessions lingers on Shouyou’s flesh. Bitemarks, some old and some new, litter his shoulders, ass and thighs. Hickeys bloom like bruised petals on his neck and collarbones. There’s even the faintest signs of rope burn, put there only by Atsumu’s carelessness. The man looks positively _ravished_.

Blown irises follow Kiyoomi as he stalks around the desk, discovering the source of the humming he’d heard from outside the office.

The ginger’s legs are parted by an iron ankle-spreader, and as Kiyoomi’s gaze crawls deliberately up the man’s trembling legs, he discovers the trail of a gel-like liquid. As his eyes climb, the translucent liquid gets thicker, caking the backside of his thighs and giving his smooth, pretty skin a dewy appearance. The trail comes to an end at Shouyou’s entrance. It puckers and twitches around the blunt end of a hot pink vibrator.

Kiyoomi stops directly behind Shouyou’s bent form, his crotch just shy of grazing his ass cheeks, and hunches over, both hands caging him on either side. His lips brush the ginger’s pinkening ear, eliciting a meek shudder.

“You look absolutely _vile_.”

Shouyou moans around the underwear stuffed in his mouth.

Using his index finger, he swipes the lubricant up from the back of Shouyou’s thighs and rubs the skin of his taint. Shouyou’s back muscles tense and his foot slips, slamming him flush against the desk. He gives a muffled cry. Kiyoomi’s other hand slips around Shouyou’s middle to give him more support, a knee between his thighs and his crotch dangerously close to the vibrator.

“Look at how pathetic you are, spread out on my desk like you’ve been waiting for me all day,” Kiyoomi croons gently, unable to deny the tingling sensation that runs up his arms. “Did you miss me, Shou? Were you thinking about this while you were on your knees scrubbing my bathrooms and dusting my furniture like a good little house husband?”

He shoves his fingers deep into Shouyou’s mouth and yanks out the underwear. The ginger coughs and splutters, blinking back renewed tears. It’s women’s underwear—one Kiyoomi hasn’t seen before.

Scowling, he throws a glare at Atsumu from across the room. The blonde has his hand down his pants, stroking himself lazily. “You didn’t even bother to remove the tag? That’s lazy—even by your standards.”

Atsumu’s smirk doesn’t waver. He cocks his head and blonde bangs fall over one of his sleepy bedroom eyes. “Really? I thought it was a nice touch. I had Shou-chan wear them straight out of the store.”

“Did you now?” Kiyoomi says, his natural indifference in conflict with the carnal burn that twists in the pit of his gut.

He tosses the underwear aside unceremoniously. Shouyou with a mouthful of used panties is appealing, but Kiyoomi craves to hear Shouyou’s cries even more. The man beneath him hiccups and blinks. Poor thing. Atsumu probably already riled him up as taut as a bowstring and then left him sad and needy.

“Shouyou.” When he doesn’t answer, Kiyoomi pulls at his mane of soft apricot curls. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Shouyou chokes. “Ah—! Y-Yes, Omi-san.”

“Do you remember why you’re being punished? You told me yesterday, but my mind needs refreshing.”

“I-I left dirty dishes in the sink last week.”

“And?”

“I didn’t make the bed three days in a row …” Kiyoomi yanks hard and Shouyou cries out. “A-And I left jelly on the dining room floor and ’Tsumu slipped in it and he hurt his back.”

Kiyoomi isn’t an idiot. Atsumu is, but Kiyoomi isn’t—and neither is Shouyou for that matter. Shouyou is efficient and disciplined, not a dithering idiot. The mistakes he’s made the past week were _deliberate_ and _calculated_ —specially designed to set Kiyoomi off—as is the case when Shouyou is begging for punishment.

The ginger never asks for it outright.

Why would he, when the act of naughtiness only sweetens the scene for him?

“My back’s still hurtin’, by the way,” Atsumu complains in that whiney voice he always uses whenever he wants Shouyou fussing over him. “Had lots of trouble gettin’ outta bed this mornin’. Was scared I wouldn’ even make it to work!”

It’s a lie. They fucked in the shower while Shouyou slept in and Atsumu didn’t have any complaints _then_.

Shouyou sniffs, his bottom lip wobbling. “’Tsumu I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I didn’t notice that I dropped the jelly—I swear!”

Another lie. Seems this whole damn house is full of liars.

“You could’ve caused some real harm,” Kiyoomi plays along anyway, eager to see how far he can push things before Shouyou breaks down completely. “You’re lucky he didn’t need to be taken to hospital.”

“I know—I’m sorry.”

“Are you? This is your third day of punishment, and I’m not convinced you’ve suffered even a second of it. You weren’t hoping I would punish you, were you, Shou? Surely my loving, doting, sweet little Shouyou wouldn’t purposely leave food on the floor just to get a reaction out of me, right?”

Shouyou’s entire body is trembling. He doesn’t answer. Kiyoomi’s breath caresses the shell of Shouyou’s ear.

“Shou?”

“R-Right.”

Kiyoomi pulls back, unable to hide his own smirk. His eyes meet with Atsumu’s again as he unbuckles his belt. Shouyou perks at the sound, unabashedly letting the hunger show on his face. He sneers, his fingers back in his curls. “Atsumu, since you’re the one who has suffered the most from Shouyou’s ineptitude, why don’t you give the number? Shouyou—” he growls his name like it’s a dirty word “—make sure you _count_.”

Shouyou sniffs, nodding as best he can with his head bent back by his hair.

Atsumu swipes his tongue across his upper lip and eats Shouyou up with his eyes. “Fifteen seems fair.”

Shouyou lets out a pitiful sob. Kiyoomi releases his hair and takes a measured step back, kneading at the ginger’s left cheek. “Does that sound fair, Shou?”

“Please …”

“Please what?” When Shouyou doesn’t answer, Kiyoomi gives him a warning smack. “Your words, Shou. Use your words.”

“F-Fifteen is fair but …”

“But?” Honestly, he should get an award for how patient he’s being right now.

“The v-v-vibrator.”

“What, _this_ vibrator?” Kiyoomi grips the end. It tilts only slightly inside Shouyou, but he may as well have yanked it by the violent reaction he evokes. Shouyou slams his forehead against the desk with a sharp cry, his back arching and the muscle of his thighs rippling. Kiyoomi doesn’t release his hold. “What about the vibrator, Shouyou?”

“Take it out!” the ginger screams, his voice cracking. “It hurts! I can’t take both— _please_.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t notice Atsumu has crossed the room until he’s on the other side of the desk, taking Shouyou’s tear-stained face into his hands and cooing at him tenderly.

“Omi-Omi’ll take that nasty lil’ thing out, won’cha? No need to get so upset.”

Kiyoomi huffs. “Shouyou, colour?”

“Y-Yellow.”

He eases the vibrator out of Shouyou’s puckering hole, a clump of lubricant spilling out along with it. He turns it off and sets it aside. “What about now?”

Shouyou sighs with relief, basking in the butterfly kisses Atsumu peppers across his cheeks. “Green.”

He gives Shouyou’s ass a firm squeeze. “If it’s too much you’ll let us know.”

They’ve been in the situation so many times Kiyoomi has lost count. Shouyou knows all he has to do is say the colour and they’ll immediately stop, but Kiyoomi reminds the ginger anyway just in case. Sex is fun, but it’s only fun if they’re all enjoying it.

“Atsumu, back to the couch,” he orders while turning his wrist experimentally.

The blonde pulls away from Shouyou’s face, his doting charm souring. “What if I don’ wanna?”

“Then you’ll be next,” Kiyoomi snaps.

Atsumu huffs, and Kiyoomi’s eyes follow the blonde’s ass as he turns and saunters back to the couch, collapsing against it with his hand down his pants like it’s a chore.

“Good boy.”

“Fuck off.”

Without warning, Kiyoomi cracks the flat side of his belt against Shouyou’s ass. The ginger’s whole body starts, jaw snapping open in surprise as he lets out a sweet mewl. He’s so shaken that he almost forgets to stutter out a ‘one’ before the next lash stings his left buttock.

Kiyoomi gives equal treatment to both cheeks, arousal pooling at the sight of Shouyou’s tight mounds rippling from the abuse.

The first few are child’s play. Nothing the whip of a towel might give you in a locker-room setting. But just when Shouyou gets comfortable with the pain, he kicks it up a notch, enough that the leather makes a satisfying _snap_ against his blushing skin.

“Nine!”

_Smack._

“T-Ten!”

_Smack._

The pitch of Shouyou’s voice gets higher the sharper the hit is, and Kiyoomi makes the last two count. The final strike echoes so loudly that even Atsumu, who can sit through documentaries about cannibals unfazed, gives a visceral flinch. And if this had been their first scene together, and if Kiyoomi didn’t know Shouyou like the veins on the back of his hand, he might’ve been worried.

But he’s not.

Shouyou’s head snaps back in a silent cry, his entire body spasming on a dry orgasm.

He frowns, tilting his head to look between Shouyou’s legs. His pathetic excuse for a cock is pressed against his desk, sore, swollen, and painfully red. The addition of the cock ring is a surprise.

“I suppose I wasn’t the only one feeling cruel today,” Kiyoomi deadpans.

Atsumu strokes himself with all the enthusiasm of a drugged sloth, but witnessing Shouyou twitch through a dry orgasm sparks arousal in his predatory gaze. “Had to do it, else he would’a been spent before ya even got here.”

“It’s not what we agreed on.” He reaches between Shouyou’s legs. The ginger flinches when his fingers brush over his sensitive little cock. “You know how I like him.”

“The night’s still young,” Atsumu reminds. “There’s still plenty o’ time to make him as dirty as you want him. I can even help ya, if ya like.”

“Later,” Kiyoomi grunts, snatching Shouyou’s dick and gently removing the cock ring.

The ginger shudders, boneless against his desk, uninclined to move or speak. Kiyoomi places the ring aside and then grasps both of Shouyou’s perky mounds in his hands, squeezing and kneading the stinging flesh. His pink hole winks at him, as if to taunt him.

Well, Kiyoomi isn’t one to back down from a challenge.

“Where’s the lube?” he asks Atsumu.

“In the drawer.”

He pops open the cap and drizzles a single finger with the clear liquid before pressing it against Shouyou’s rim. “I’m going to make you cum with just a finger,” he tells Shouyou, and the ginger nods.

Kiyoomi watches with keen interest as his fingernail slowly vanishes past the puffy entrance. More lubricant left over from Atsumu’s sloppy work tumbles out of Shouyou’s hole, and Kiyoomi wonders if the blonde directly squirted it into Shouyou to get the intended effect. Mesmerised, he sinks his finger further, and the deeper he goes the more lubricant falls out of him, squelching and bubbling obscenely from the tight walls.

“You’re disgusting,” he snarls, shoving his finger to the knuckle.

Shouyou bites back a cry. “I am!”

“You should see yourself. Wet like a bitch in heat. Next time I’ll have you in front of the mirror so I can show you just how much of a nasty little slut you are.”

Kiyoomi crooks his finger, digging into the velvet flesh of Shouyou’s insides in search of the place that’ll have him coming undone. It doesn’t take long. His nail drags across something spongey and the man beneath him jerks so intensely that the ankle-spreader shudders.

“Th-There!” Shouyou cries. “Right there! Don’t—oh god—”

He pauses to rest his palm on the small of Shouyou’s back. “Remember to breathe.”

“I am breathing!” the ginger whines. “Just k-keep—don’t stop—”

“Shouyou.” The deep rumble in Kiyoomi’s chest is enough of a warning to still him.

Kiyoomi listens very carefully to the man’s breathing, paying close attention to every hitch and every quiver, and waits until he’s confident that Shouyou’s breathing has evened out—at least, as evened out as he can be on the verge of climaxing.

The traffic light safety protocol is fine for what it is. It’s only shortcoming is that Shouyou isn’t always the best at recognising when he’s too overwhelmed, forcing Atsumu and Kiyoomi to sometimes make judgement calls that delay the pleasure for some peace of mind.

It puts Shouyou in a terribly grumpy mood. Particularly after the fact when he can look back on a scene and go: “I was completely fine! I gave you the green light! Why do always have to treat me like I’m made of glass?”

Things can get a bit heated in their household whenever Shouyou pulls _that_ card. Because if there’s one thing aside from germs that Kiyoomi loathes, it’s reckless endangerment.

Just as Shouyou relaxes beneath him, and there’s a steady rise and fall in his shoulders, Kiyoomi coils his finger to fondle his prostate, causing Shouyou to twist and shiver.

“Don’t stop please—I’ll be good. S-See? I’m breathing! I’m breathing real good!”

“Really _well_ ,” Kiyoomi corrects nonchalantly, then presses against the spongey flesh _hard_.

Shouyou keens. He keens so loud that Kiyoomi doubts even the semi-soundproofing was able to shield their neighbours from the sinful noise. It takes everything— _everything_ not to pull out his cock and ram it into Shouyou’s tight heat. As much as he wants to fuck him until the ginger goes cross-eyed, there’s a notable lack of defilement on his little submissive that takes Kiyoomi out of things. Yes, he’s sweaty and dripping in an excess of lubricant, but it’s nowhere near the level of vulgarity that he likes.

The abuse to Shouyou’s prostate comes to a premature, anticlimactic climax that has him coming pitifully against his desk, stomach and thighs.

Kiyoomi scoffs and removes his finger. “Stupid slut.”

He almost immediately contradicts his harsh words by kneeling down to carefully unlatch the spreader, his fingers gently massaging around Shouyou’s ankles where there might’ve been some strain.

“Colour?” Cum crawls down Shouyou’s thick thigh towards his knee.

“Green,” Shouyou croaks.

‘Green’ has two meanings: it works as a reassurance that everything is OK and they feel safe/secure, and also as an affirmation to keep the scene going. ‘Red’ is what they use when one of them is ready to end a scene.

Kiyoomi undoes the knots on Shouyou’s wrists and turns him onto his back. The ginger groans, his knees parting and his arms sluggish at his sides, looking Kiyoomi with half-lidded eyes and a bottom lip bitten raw. Sunset curls stick to his forehead, and there are marks where the edge of the desk has dug into his hipbone.

A work of art, splaying out and ready for the taking. But it’s not quite _there._ Kiyoomi gathers up some of the cum on Shouyou’s stomach and smears his across his cheek to see if it changes anything. The ginger giggles and tries to swipe his fingers with his tongue, but Kiyoomi snatches his hand back quickly.

“It’s not enough,” he says aloud.

He stands there, contemplating, his eyes running up Shouyou’s gorgeous body—then his eyes snap up to Atsumu. There’s a glint in the blonde’s eyes, a quirk in his grin that’s the answer to Kiyoomi’s problem.

“How can I be of service to ya, _Daddy?_ ”

Kiyoomi scowls and steps away from Shouyou. “Call me that again and I’ll have you sleeping in the yard like a dog.”

“That supposed to be a threat, was it? I kinda like the thought of bein’ ya pet fer a while.”

“Shut up and get over here. You’re fucking Shouyou first.”

With a fox-like grace and a flash of teeth, Atsumu leaps to his feet. He doesn’t need to be told twice. They switch places; Atsumu slots himself snuggly between Shouyou’s legs and Kiyoomi gets comfortable on the sofa. Atsumu leaves his shirt in a crumpled heap at his feet, revealing the fruits of his labour for his lovers to appreciate—a chiselled chest and a washboard stomach akin to that of the Grecian gods.

“Baby,” Atsumu croons, leaning over Shouyou, pinning him to the desk by his wrists. “Are ya hungry for it? _Beggin’_ for it?”

He grinds his clothed crotch between the ginger’s legs, eliciting a whine.

“Go on, Shou. Tell me how much ya want me.”

“More than the world!”

“Mm. Too cliché.”

Shouyou scrunches up his face. “More than … than chocolate?”

“Try again.”

The childish frustration is punctuated by a loud _huff_. “More than volleyball!”

Atsumu’s lazy smirk widens. “Close. How about more than tha’ big-shot player ya always fanboyin’ over? Ya know, the one with the spikey hair.”

Atsumu knows the player’s name. He’s worked with him several times—not that he ever mentions it in front of Shouyou. He doesn’t like the idea of their sunshine having gooey eyes for anyone who isn’t him or Kiyoomi. Which, in Kiyoomi’s opinion, is just a little petty.

“You—you don’t mean B-Bokuto?”

“Ah, tha’s his name! Tell me ya want me more than him—oh, and tha’ my dick is bigger than his.”

“But I don’t know how big Bokuto’s dick is!”

“Yes, let’s keep it that way.” Atsumu grinds against Shouyou, the bulge in his sweats collecting a wet patch of lubricant from his ass.

The ginger’s eyelashes flutter, his jaw loosening. “I want you—more than Bokuto.”

Atsumu grins like someone just told him he just won Sexiest Man on Earth (though with Shouyou telling him he wants him more than international volleyball superstar Bokuto Koutarou, he probably feels that way too).

Leaning forward until he’s practically folded in half on top of Shouyou, he presses a vicious kiss to the ginger’s small pink lips. Shouyou kisses back, just as hungry, just as shameless, just as needy. It’s such a contrast, the way Atsumu treats Shouyou compared to how he treats him. Kiyoomi likes to be cold and indifferent, as if the ginger isn’t worthy of a reaction; Atsumu is the opposite, he’s all over Shouyou like he can’t get enough of him, like at any moment he’s going to slip away and he’ll never get to touch him again.

It’s why Kiyoomi is letting Atsumu have his fun.

Some nights it’s sexier to let the blonde have his sloppy seconds, but right now Kiyoomi is in a very … _particular_ mood. He wants Shouyou a certain way—a certain way Atsumu will be able to make a reality.

When their mouths part, they’re slick and glistening. Atsumu immediately drives back for more, kissing from Shouyou’s lips down the column of his neck. Shouyou moans, craning his neck to allow more skin for Atsumu to explore. He sucks on the flesh just below Shouyou’s jaw. Kiyoomi can’t see from where he’s sitting, but he imagines a hickey, red and angry, is left behind by the assault. Shouyou bucks his hips against Atsumu, his elbows jerking in a feeble attempt to wrench free from his grip.

“’Tsumu!” Shouyou gasps. “M-My co-workers, they’ll see!”

“I’m plannin’ on it,” Atsumu purrs. “That brat Kageyama needs to learn to keep his hands to himself.”

Shouyou makes a confused whine. “Why are you always like this? I told you, he’s just a— _ah!_ ”

Atsumu’s mouth latches onto Shouyou’s nipple, and Kiyoomi sees the muscles of his thighs clench against the blonde’s waist.

Atsumu, with his woe-is-me middle-child attitude, has a problem keeping his jealousy in check. The number of times he’s bemoaned Kiyoomi’s hot young colleagues or scowled at even the mention of Shouyou’s co-host is enough that they’ve learnt to brush it off as Atsumu being a whiney bitch. Except when they’re in a scene and there’s no escaping it.

Shouyou chokes and whimpers at the mouth on his nipple. It’s a classic aversion tactic. Something so vulnerable and obvious that only someone like Atsumu would dare to exploit.

Shouyou’s nipples are especially sensitive.

There are certain fabrics he can’t wear because it hurts when his nipples brush against them.

“’Tsumu—h-hurts,” Shouyou whimpers. The tone of his voice says ‘no more’ but the jerk of his hips says ‘yes, god, yes’.

Atsumu guides one of Shouyou’s wrists to his other nipple, encouraging him to play with himself. Shouyou doesn’t need to be told. His fingers dig into the flesh of his left pectoral and squeezes, his jaw tensing. Atsumu’s freed hand vanishes between their bodies, and Kiyoomi can only take a guess as to its destination, but he imagines it in his mind: the rake of his nails scratching down Shouyou’s body, going further and further and further until it slips between Shouyou’s trembling thighs—

As if on cue, the ginger writhes beneath Atsumu’s larger body, the hand on his breast slapping over his mouth.

Three fingers at once, if Kiyoomi could guess by the pitch of Shouyou’s moan.

The blonde would’ve stretched him out before Kiyoomi got back from work. It’s a routine they have whenever work has Kiyoomi stressed and taut and in need of a quick fuck. Something he initially _thought_ he’d be looking for tonight, until he was standing before Shouyou’s pliant body and decided that wasn’t what he wants at all.

“Love how yer clenchin’ round me,” Atsumu croons, hot breath fanning his abused teat.

There’s a distinct squelching noise that touches Kiyoomi’s ears, one that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than Atsumu crudely pumping his fingers in and out of Shouyou’s entrance.

“A-Ah, ’Tsumu I’m ready! Please, I’ve been waiting so long,” Shouyou begs, his fingers tangling in his own hair.

“Yeah? Tell me how long you’ve been waiting for this big dick.”

Kiyoomi snorts. Atsumu’s eyes flicker in his direction, just the barest irritation crossing his expression.

“All day.”

Atsumu’s eyes drop back down to the man beneath him. “Even while you were workin’?”

“ _Especially_ while I was working. Time goes slowly when I’m away from you and Omi-san.”

Atsumu dips down to kiss him on the lips. “I’m glad. I’m glad that when yer with Kageyama yer thinkin’ of me and my cock up your ass.”

The blonde does something with his fingers that makes the ginger writhe and cry out. Atsumu removes his fingers and replaces one intrusion for another. Kiyoomi wishes he had a better view, as he only gets to see the briefest hint of Atsumu hard flesh before it disappears inside Shouyou. Atsumu doesn’t stop until he’s to the hilt, and only then does he pause to get his bearings.

Shouyou’s diaphragm rises and falls, as steady as when Kiyoomi left him. He wishes he could see the ginger’s face, admire his expression as it contorts and pulls in an elixir of pain and pleasure—but mostly pleasure. Again, Kiyoomi’s imagination is left to colour in the blanks, to paint him a picture burnt inside the backs of his eyelids from memory alone.

In his head, Shouyou’s eyes are watery and his bottom lip is trembling. There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows and his pupils are dilated, the spot of cum on his flushed cheek crusting over. A teasing rivulet of sweat treks down from his temple and dips into the curve of his neck.

And he’s disgusting, in that beautiful way Kiyoomi struggles to define.

Then Atsumu is moving, and once he’s gets going Shouyou has no choice but to hold on for dear life. He sets the pace, fast and dirty. Shouyou reaches up to grip the back of Atsumu’s neck, but Atsumu catches his wrist and pins it beside his head.

Kiyoomi’s office is filled with the obscenities of his loud lovers, the rhythmic slapping as their bodies collide, and the fractured cries of Shouyou as he chokes on his own pleasure, and Atsumu as he snarls and grunts and dribbles profanities. There’s nothing else like it. A video recording couldn’t do them justice, even if it were a high-quality porno with all the best angles and audio money could provide. It can’t be fully appreciated unless you are there in the moment, a fly upon the wall. And Kiyoomi is that fly. The sole witness. There’s something so repulsive about the fly, for all its voyeurism in a private space.

But if it means he gets to indulge in _this_ , does it matter that he’s despicable?

No, not at all.

Atsumu’s eyes cloud over, as they often do during sex. It’s like he can’t see past his own fingers, can’t comprehend the world outside of his cock inside Shouyou. And Shouyou, well—he babbles. Babbles like a broken toy. Words string together and mutate, collide in incomprehension. It calls to Kiyoomi, as a siren calls to a sailor, and even though he promised himself that he wouldn’t, his feet move on their own.

Instead of watching the couch, he’s standing beside Atsumu, seeing what he’s seeing.

There aren’t any surprises in what he finds.

They’re both a mess. Atsumu is an animal, his hips rolling and stuttering, chasing the pleasure and nothing else; and Shouyou is a doll, bones sluggish and body pliant, drowning in the heat.

Kiyoomi places a gentle yet firm hand to the back of Atsumu’s neck. The blonde snaps his head up, noticing Kiyoomi as if for the first time, and watching his primal snarl turn to stunned confusion, however brief, and it spurs Kiyoomi to claim Atsumu’s lips for his own. The rhythm falters, but only for a moment. Kiyoomi indulges in a glimmer of dominance before Atsumu recovers and kisses him back, all teeth and tongue.

He scowls, reeling back in disgust. “You kiss like a dog.”

Atsumu grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Can’t imagine why you would.”

Shouyou drools and hiccups, and Kiyoomi beats back the urge to touch him. “It’s still not enough.”

“I’m getting’ there. Be patient,” Atsumu growls.

“I’ve been patient all day.” Kiyoomi’s hand slides up and grips the back of Atsumu’s hair, tugging roughly. “You were supposed to have him ready for me.”

“He _was_ ready.” Atsumu gets defensive. He always does when Kiyoomi criticises him. “Yer just a fussy bitch.”

Despite the complaint, Atsumu shoves himself to the base inside Shouyou and pauses to spit in the ginger’s face. Shouyou mewls, head snapping to the side like he’s been slapped, and precum beads at the tip of his neglected cock.

“Ya gettin’ close already. I can feel ya squeezin’ me,” Atsumu groans, his longer fingers engulfing Shouyou’s cock.

“D-Don’t!” Shouyou gasps, his hips bucking. “If—if you do that I’ll—I’ll—”

This only spurs Atsumu on. His thrusting gets longer, drawn out like a vowel, plunging into Shouyou deep and sloppy. It’s usually the opposite for most people. Right before the climax it’s fast and unstoppable, a train going headlong through a tunnel in a rush to get to the other side, but Atsumu gets slower towards the end, wants to savour every response he draws out of Shouyou.

“Oh god!” Shouyou gasps, toes curling. “Not there—yes, just a little— _ah!_ ”

The ginger’s incomprehension is like a busted traffic light. It happens when he gets dumb like this, when he’s in the throes of a fever and all that he knows is the names of his lovers. This is why they established the standard traffic light safe words to begin with, ironically.

A particularly hard thrust against Shouyou’s prostate is enough. Atsumu swallows his squeal with his mouth, pinning him as his body trembles through the violent orgasm. Cum smatters his chin and chest, like dirt smeared on an oil painting.

Atsumu keeps going, keeps chasing. Shouyou whimpers and cries from the overstimulation but doesn’t tell him to stop.

When Atsumu finally unloads, it’s with a guttural moan, his head tilting towards the ceiling and sweat slicking his neck and chest. Kiyoomi’s eyes linger on Atsumu’s Adam’s apple, watching how it shifts under his lightly tanned skin as he swallows. He’s struck again by a dilemma he struggles with on a daily basis; this urge to sink his teeth into Atsumu or take his place between Shouyou’s legs.

It’s a problem he doesn’t need to answer, not this time, because Atsumu makes the decision for him.

Cum falls out of Shouyou when Atsumu pulls out, but before it can stain the desk Atsumu smears it on the inside of Shouyou’s thighs. Kiyoomi’s erection throbs painfully at the sight, this blatant act of debauchery.

The blonde steps away, looking Kiyoomi dead in the eyes as he sucks the remnants of release from his fingers. “It is enough now?” The depth of his voice has Kiyoomi weak at the knees, but he has a role to play.

“Sufficient,” he rasps, reassuming his place before Shouyou. He hunches of the smaller man, cupping the side of his face.

Atsumu scowls and rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go—”

“No,” Kiyoomi glares over his shoulder at him. “You stay and watch.”

“Ya can’t boss me around. I’m not a bitch.”

“Then stop talking like one.”

The blonde bites back a snarl but does exactly as he’s told. Instead of returning to the couch, he hops up on the desk next to him and reaches over to tangle his fingers in Shouyou’s damp locks.

“Ya still with us, Shou?” Atsumu coos. “Or did I finally fuck ya brains out?”

Kiyoomi lightly taps Shouyou’s cheek to get him to focus. “Colour?”

“Green.”

Kiyoomi and Atsumu share a glance. The blonde cocks at eyebrow. “Yer sure ‘bout that?”

“Omi-san, I’m enough now, r-right?” Shouyou spreads his knees further apart, his feet hooking the back of Kiyoomi’s thighs. There’s desperation glittering in his big brown eyes.

Shouyou’s body is vulgar, red staining white carpet, mould poisoning fruit, rot ravaging a sapling. Cum dries on his face, his chest, his stomach, his thighs; Atsumu’s spit trickles just under Shouyou’s left eye, and the small man reeks of sex and smut. It’s such a contrast to how the world perceives Shouyou outside their abode. In public he’s impeccable. A fine Russian doll, a champion’s medallion. That’s how they see him, and Kiyoomi prefers to _keep it_ that way.

Because the Shouyou beneath him is just for him and Atsumu, no one else.

Eyes fluttering shut, Kiyoomi places a gentle kiss on Shouyou’s raw lips. “More than enough.”

Finally relieving himself from his slacks, he shoves Shouyou onto his side and throws his leg over his shoulder. Kiyoomi is liberal with the lube as he coats on his cock, not that Shouyou needs it. He could go raw and no harm would be done to the ginger’s thoroughly abused cunt, but he wants the sound of their bodies connecting to be as profane and unholy as possible.

With a guiding hand, he rubs the tip of his cock at Shouyou’s entrance, watching how it gapes and drools for him.

Kiyoomi kisses Shouyou’s knee. “Keep him present, Atsumu. I don’t want him slipping too far from us.”

“Yer not gonna hold back, ey?”

“Not unless Shou tells me to.”

“A’right.” Atsumu leans over Shouyou, tucking a tuft of orange behind his ear and murmuring sweet words to him.

Without delay, Kiyoomi _finally_ shoves himself into Shouyou’s tight heat. The ginger mewls, back arching and entrance tightening around him. It takes all Kiyoomi’s willpower not to immediately come. Taking a deep breath, he gets a firm grasp on Shouyou’s leg and fucks him with all the pent-up tension he’d accumulated over this horrifically long day.

“Such a fucking curse,” Kiyoomi snarls, snapping his hips in an aggressively fast pace. “Having the both of you as mine. So pretty—so disgusting. All I want to do is fuck you. It’s the only thing that gets me through the day sometimes. My gorgeous, filthy _sluts_.”

Atsumu doesn’t like being called a slut. He likes calling _others_ sluts. But Shouyou is _very_ into it, and he’s the priority at the moment. If Kiyoomi didn’t have his dick in Shouyou, Atsumu might’ve reached over to punch him.

He can tell Shouyou is nearing the point of exhaustion, not nearly as vocal as he normally is, but still taking it like he’s made for it.

That’s fine, as far as Kiyoomi is concerned. He’s brimming with so much steam that he doesn’t need the ginger to do any work.

He never breaks pace. It’s hard and fast the whole way through, even when he flips Shouyou into three other positions just to reach a little deeper inside him. He only stops once to shove him on the floor and take him with his ass in the air and his face squashed against floorboards. Atsumu watches with aroused disinterest, tugging at his cock without any real commitment.

A hard slap to Shouyou’s beaten ass cheek has his body jump-starting like a taser to the chest. It’s the biggest reaction Kiyoomi’s gotten from Shouyou since he sheathed his cock inside him, and he doesn’t pass up on the opportunity to exploit it to the fullest.

He keeps smacking his ass. Shouyou cries and begs—begs for what, he doesn’t seem to know—and comes undone with a croaky whine.

“Naughty. I don’t remember giving you permission to come all over my floor.” Shouyou tenses, his back arching in a way that constricts deliciously around Kiyoomi’s meat. “You’re going to lick it up once I’m through with you—all of it. I don’t want to see a spot of your filth anywhere.”

“Y-Yes!” Shouyou mewls.

Kiyoomi readjusts his angle so that he’s practically fucking Shouyou into the floorboards, the pressure building up inside him. And then he sees it—a glimpse of cum on Shouyou’s cheek—and then he buries himself deep inside him, unleashing a release so primal he bruises Shouyou’s hips.

For a moment, the silence is only punctured by the sounds of panting.

Like a broken spell, the need to demean, to dominate and to degrade leave Kiyoomi all at once. He pulls out of Shouyou and scoops him up into his arms before he can fall over in a boneless heap.

“I’ll go run a bath,” Atsumu says, wiping his cum on his own sweatpants as he leaves the study.

Kiyoomi sits there on his knees, Shouyou pliant in his arms, allowing the quiet to gracefully pull him back down to reality. Shouyou is much the same, his eyelids drooping but refusing to close, gazing up at Kiyoomi like he’s trying to brand this memory on the surface of his brain.

“You can sleep,” he tells Shouyou, brushing away his fringe. “Atsumu and I will take care of you.”

“I don’t want to sleep. Not yet.” It takes effort, but Shouyou reaches up to cup the side of Kiyoomi’s face. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

He huffs. “I’m pretty sure I got more out of that then you did.”

“You’re wrong,” Shouyou says tiredly. “I got plenty out of it.”

Rediscovering the strength in his limbs, he carefully rises to his feet, holding Shouyou close to his chest.

Steam billows out from the ensuite door as Kiyoomi approaches. They find Atsumu kneeling by the bath, dipping his fingers in the water to test the temperature. Kiyoomi sits Shouyou on the lip of the bath and uses the showerhead to wash the nastiness from the ginger’s body.

At the beginning of their relationship, he struggled to lay his bare hands on the foulness he’d left all over Shouyou’s body once the scene had ended. The best he could do was shield his hand with a damp cloth or a loofa. It doesn’t bother him at all now. Not when it’s on his lover’s body.

Shouyou is wordless, his neck struggling to keep his head straight. Atsumu shoots the ginger cautious looks, worried he might fall back in the tub and hurt his head. But even though they’re not in a scene anymore, Kiyoomi still feels in control of the situation. He’s confident Shouyou won’t fall, and even if he did, he’d catch him before he could hurt himself.

Atsumu takes over once Kiyoomi is done. He eases Shouyou into the bath while Kiyoomi sits on the floor with his head tilted towards the spray of the showerhead.

“I’m not your slut by the way.”

He pulls the showerhead away, wiping the water from his eyes. “Hm?”

“Fuck off. You heard me.”

Kiyoomi chuckles, slowly opening his eyes. Atsumu refuses to look at him, concentrating _really_ hard on bathing Shouyou.

“What are you talking about?” He meant for a flat tone, but the amusement rings against the bathroom tiles.

“When you were dickin’ Shou-chan, you called us your ‘gorgeous, filthy sluts.’ I’m sayin’ I ain’t your fuckin’ slut.”

“We’ll see.”

Atsumu scoffs. “Yer full of shit.”

Privately, Kiyoomi isn’t convinced Atsumu dislikes being called it, but he knows he won’t get any definitive answers with the blonde right now. Maybe another time.

*

The day of the fundraiser has arrived and Kiyoomi is not amused.

To hell with the benefits Kuroo listed off, there are too many people packed into their hall and Kiyoomi can’t believe he’s contractually obligated to be here. In the hours he spent reading over the terms of his employment, not once does he recall his attendance at these events as _paramount_ , and yet when he teased his absence to his boss, Ushijima reminded him that failure to attend (outside an emergency) is unacceptable. He even went as far as to threaten cutting his bonus at the end of the year.

This would’ve been fine in Kiyoomi’s books. It’s not as if he and his two boyfriends are scrounging for coins or anything like that. He could take a cut if he could avoid the fundraiser, but then he remembered Atsumu is excepting a vacation to Hawaii for his birthday and all fantasies of skipping are detonated to oblivion.

Which leads him to stand amidst his colleagues and sports representatives, praying for a hurricane to come sweeping through the city and inciting an emergency evacuation.

His boyfriends, upsettingly, thrive in social spaces.

Many of those in attendance are people they’ve worked with personally. Atsumu’s job as an Olympic personal trainer for volleyball stars, and Shouyou’s career as a sports commentator for V. League, means they’re familiar with a large chunk of people in attendance. It’s infuriating to watch. All he wants to do is shoo everyone away from his boyfriends and tell them they’re off limits.

Kuroo plants a hand on his shoulder, a glass of champagne in his other hand. “I can’t _believe_ you hid your boyfriends from me for this long—Hinata Shouyou and Miya Atsumu! Un-fucking-believe!”

“Would you have believed me if I’d told you?”

“No! Hinata was your PA for a year and I never once saw you two … you know.”

Kiyoomi tries his best to suppress a smirk. “Rest assured, we did. Multiple times.”

“Oh joy,” Kuroo says dryly.

“Your old desk was one of those places.”

“Hm. There were times I came into work to find my desk suspiciously spotless.”

Whatever half-hearted comment on the tip of his tongue dies when Shouyou bounces over and tugs at his arm. “Omi-san, you didn’t tell me _the_ Bokuto Koutarou was going to be here!”

“You didn’t ask.”

Shouyou pouts. “You’re not jealous, are you? I swear there’s only one brain cell shared between you and ’Tsumu.”

Kiyoomi must be madly in love. It’s the only way to explain what he says next: “Would you like me to introduce you to him?”

Shouyou gasps, eyes sparkling. “You’d do that?”

He scoffs. “Just who do you take me for? Kuroo—hold my drink, will you? I’ll be right back.”

Kiyoomi guides Shouyou towards where the crowd is thickest. He’s uncomfortable to an extreme degree, but the sickness in his gut is alleviated slightly by the press of Shouyou’s body against his side.

Bokuto isn’t a difficult person to find. Much like Kiyoomi’s hopeless boyfriends, he seems to thrive off the rapt attention of others. He’s in the middle of loudly recalling a story for a group of four people, all of whom Kiyoomi recognises as other players apart of Japan’s V. League. Shouyou is practically digging his heels into the floor, stuck between wanting to meet Bokuto and running away screaming.

Kiyoomi taps Bokuto on the shoulder. He holds up his hand to his small audience and says, “Excuse me for a moment.”

The superstar turns, big yellows eyes sparking with warm recognition as they land on Kiyoomi’s face. “Omi! My man! How are you?”

The silver-haired man seems to have learnt from their last interaction, because he doesn’t crowd into his space for a hug. “You seem in good health. I wanted to congratulate you on your win against the Adlers. It was quite compelling.”

“Ah really?” Bokuto blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “That means a lot coming from you. But I can’t take all the credit—my team’s really strong this year.”

“To be certain. I also came to introduce to somebody—” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes when he realises Shouyou is cowering behind him “—my partner, Hinata Shouyou. I’m sure you’re familiar with him. He commentates most of your games.”

Snatching the ginger’s hand, he yanks his boyfriend in front of him. Shouyou stumbles, then straightens, the tips of his ears turning pink. “N-N-Nice to m-m-meet you!” he squeaks.

Kiyoomi hasn’t seen Shouyou this nervous since … well, since he first met Atsumu, actually. He stares at the back of Shouyou’s head suspiciously, then flickers up to Bokuto’s face, which has visibly darkened a few shades.

“Oh wow, I’m a big fan! Watching a volleyball game isn’t the same if you’re not commentating it.” A beaming grin splits Bokuto’s face in two, and Shouyou bouncing on the balls of his feet, a complete child dressed in a suit.

It might be the crowd, or it might be something else entirely, but Kiyoomi is struck with the cruel urge to leave Shouyou to fend for himself. It’d almost be too easy. And so that’s exactly what he does, slipping away into the crowd as Bokuto and Shouyou are enraptured by each other.

Kiyoomi doesn’t get far though.

He had a date with the very corner of the room where there’s the least amount of people, but his arm is snatched up by Atsumu, who’s doesn’t bother hiding his irritation.

“What the fuck was that?” the blonde snaps as he yanks Kiyoomi into the shadow of a secluded hallway.

“What was what?”

“Introducin’ Shou-chan to Bokkun! Do ya know how hard I worked to keep those two from meetin’ each other? This is a disaster!”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Oh please. Are you really so insecure in our relationship that you’d be threatened by another man? The likelihood of Shouyou cheating on us is about as likely as your chances of topping tonight.”

Atsumu bares his teeth. “This ain’t a joke. They’re as equally obsessed with each other, if ya couldn’ tell.”

His fingers toy at the silk choker around Atsumu’s neck. If there’s one thing that he likes about tonight, he supposes it’d be showing his lovers off to the people at this silly event. They look so pretty in their suits, their hair styled and their chokers on full display. There’s nothing fancy about the chokers; as far as chokers go, they’re fairly innocuous. Just a strip of pleasing black silk hugging their necks as a gentle yet bold reminder of who they belong to.

“God, I want to ruin you.”

Atsumu has the decency to blush, coughing into his fist. “Omi-Omi, ya can’ jus’ say tha’. We’re at a fundraiser fer kids—ya co-workers might hear ya.”

He quirks an eyebrow at the blonde. “I fucked Shouyou for a year at the office and no one suspected a thing. He even sucked me off under my desk while I had a meeting with our event manager. You really think these idiots are paying seeing past their own hands?”

“They are now. It ain’t normal to have two boyfriends. They probably think we’re freaks.”

The glimmer of insecurity has Kiyoomi cupping Atsumu’s face. “Did someone say something to you?”

Atsumu shrugs and looks away, but Kiyoomi pulls him close until their foreheads are almost touching. “We _are_ freaks, Atsumu. What does it matter? You’ve never been one to care about what others think of you, so why start now?”

The line of Atsumu’s shoulders falls, and he breathes a small sigh, leaning forward to peck Kiyoomi on the lips. “Don’t like it when I gotta share you and Shou-chan. Makes me wanna set the whole damn room on fire.”

“Patience,” Kiyoomi growls, fingers tangling at the back of Atsumu’s head. He nips at his bottom lip. “Keep yourself clean for now. Have them see you as the perfect gentleman, the charmer you’re so good at playing. Because tonight, I’m going to make you positively _filthy_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tune in for the sequel where Bokuto gets curious about the throuple situation and they have a foursome hahahaha jk jk … or am I ...? 
> 
> Nah nah really I’m just joking … unless …?
> 
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